Friday, May 31, 2013

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Though I've run this blog for eight years and posted with a frequency that I never imagined I could sustain I don't think I've ever been a particularly good blogger. By that I mean I've never offered readers much in the way of information about the minutiae of my existence. A few impersonal or semi-personal facts here and there are about as far as it goes. I've always been free and easy with my opinions but the daily details of my life, my family and my activities have been largely absent, and where mentioned at all, have invariably been very generalised. The fact is, though I'm reasonably gregarious, I'm a fairly private person. Moreover, I'm only willing to include my nearest and dearest in this blog on the same terms that I present myself. So, my wife is never (well hardly ever) photographed close-up and my offspring and their families, where they do feature, are also distant figures., included for compositional reasons only. My family snaps remain private.

That reticence to place the details of my life on the public stage in part accounts for my dislike of social media. It also explains the lamentable way (in blogging terms) in which I flip-flop between blog comments and blog silence. I recognise that the online dialogues that ensue from blogs, news reports, other websites, even social media I suppose, can have value for those who take part in them. In fact, for a few years, I was a regular contributor of images and comments to a couple of photographic forums, an activity that I both enjoyed and learnt from. However, there's also a part of me that agrees with a recent opinion I saw suggesting that online commenters include just enough of "the mad and the sad" to make the whole exercise off-putting for the average person. Any photographer who has frequented the dpreview discussion forums will recognise there is something in that notion, as will anyone who has scanned readers' comments at the end of articles in online newspapers or even on the BBC website.

It will come as something of a surprise then, at least to more recent readers of this blog, that I post self-portraits with reasonable regularity. However, like today's example, these are often obscured in some way, perhaps by reflection, distortion or using some other such contrivance. The photograph above shows me with my compact camera reflected in an artwork that comprises blocks of mirrored glass. I liked the way that it placed parts of me - head, shoes, trousers, umbrella, in unconnected places. What I wasn't so keen on is the way it revealed me indulging in two photographic fauxs pas that I have been known to bang on about in a deprecating way - photographing single-handed and not using the wrist loop of the camera!

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

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I grew up in the Yorkshire Dales, an area where bluebell woods are relatively easy to find. I lived for a while in a part of East Yorkshire where such places were rather more distant. During my time in Lancashire they weren't too difficult to locate. But, when I moved to the Fens I soon discovered that a bluebell wood has to be actively sought out. But no more!

One of our winter activities was to convert an area of gravel garden to meadow and join it up with an area of lawn that would also become part of the same meadow. This more natural grassland with its wild flowers already had an apple tree and a plum tree, and in late winter we planted more fruit trees. The result of all our work is that several trees now stand in an area of long or longish grass that we, rather grandly, call our meadow and orchard. Dog daisies and poppies are growing up through the grass and will flower in June. Other flowers have been sown and we are hoping to see cornflowers and much more as the months pass. However, I'd forgotten about the number of bluebells that grew under the apple tree, and during the past couple of weeks they have made an appearance. I think there are more than last year but that's often the way with these bulbs, especially if they've been disturbed by digging.

It's a little fanciful to describe what we have as a bluebell wood, but it has some of the elements of one. Consequently I mounted my 100mm macro lens on the camera and took a few shots of the flowers, grass and tree trunks in the deepening shade of the early evening sunlight. I almost felt transported back to those scenes of my youth.

Monday, May 27, 2013

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Recently I posted a photograph of a gravestone that I described as "ordinary". Probably the most interesting aspect of the memorial was the four lines of verse it carries. The writer of these clearly had no time for those tombs whose unctuous prose, through flattery, exaggeration and embellishment, with no regard for humility, proclaim to the world at great length how the deceased embodied every virtue and was held in the highest regard by all who knew him.

I was reminded of this memorial the other day when I was in the church of St Martin in Stamford, Lincolnshire. This building houses the Burghley Chapel with several tombs of the Cecil family of nearby Burghley House. It also holds several memorials to lesser mortals who did not, reach the exalted heights of, for example, Chancellor to Queen Elizabeth I (William Cecil d.1598) or hold the title of Earl of Exeter.

One of these humbler memorials stands out from the others for three reasons: it appears to be ceramic, an unusual material for a memorial; it was erected by friends of the deceased rather than his family; and the tribute it pays is couched in an unusual manner.I have no idea who Thomas Cooper Goodrich was but he was evidently liked by his friends who survived him. Apart from the fact that he excelled at cricket (I assume it means this - I suppose he could have been spectacularly bad!) the tribute dwells on only the very particular personal qualities that endeared him to those who commissioned the memorial. There is no portrait, no list of public achievements, nothing about his standing in wider society, and no hint that what is said isn't any more than the firm belief of those that penned the words.

Contrast that with the overblown memorial to John Cecil, the fifth Earl of Exeter. The laudatory remarks are in Latin on the side of a copy of a Roman sarcophagus. The Earl and his wife recline in a manner that exudes the easy comfort of the rich and powerful and they look past those who view their tomb, not deigning to meet their gaze. They wear classical rather than contemporary clothes to suggest that they are people whose influence extends beyond their own time. Flanking the tomb are life-size figures of Victory and Art. These mourners are there to emphasise the fact that these are people of significance, learning (see also the books on which his elbow rests) and stature. Behind is a framing obelisk that reaches high into the chapel. A tomb of this sort, sending these kind of messages to posterity, was fashionable at the time and de rigeur for someone of John Cecil's standing. He cannot have known that future generations would see it as both bombastic and slightly silly - just look at those giant furry feet supporting the sarcophagus!

Saturday, May 25, 2013

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It is said that the genesis of the Slow Movement was the journalist, Carlo Petrini's protest against the opening of a McDonald's café (they are not restaurants whatever the company may think) near the Spanish Steps, Rome, in 1986. I recall reading about this in the press at the time. What I didn't know is that it led to the Slow Food Movement that sought to promote the virtues of locally-sourced produce, cooked traditionally and eaten socially, over the ubiquitous fast-food chains with their industrialised, homogenised products. Out of the central belief that people and societies need to slow down and give more time to preparing and eating better food came the the idea that the application of "slowness" to other areas of life would be very beneficial. Guttorm Fløistad wrote a useful summation of the idea underpinning Slow: "The only thing for certain is that everything changes. The rate of
change increases. If you want to hang on you better speed up. That is
the message of today. It could however be useful to remind everyone that
our basic needs never change. The need to be seen and appreciated! It
is the need to belong. The need for nearness and care, and for a little
love! This is given only through slowness in human relations. In order
to master changes, we have to recover slowness, reflection and
togetherness. There we will find real renewal."

Over the years I became aware of the Slow Movement and how it was being applied to areas such as travel, design, fashion and architecture. It influenced me in my decision to forgo the acquisition of a smartphone and is part of the reason that I don't "do" social media. However, more recently it was the publicity in 2008 surrounding the publication of Carl Honoré's book, "Under Pressure: Rescuing Our Children from the Culture Of Hyper-Parenting", that brought Slow to the forefront of my mind. I recognised, through my involvement in education, the way in which many children were being shepherded, directed and cosseted virtually every waking hour, how they had little time that they organised and directed for themselves, and how parents felt failures if they didn't provide a wide range of weekend and after-school activities for their offspring. This kind of parenting remains all too common today with the result that young children, who should be exploring and enjoying what the world offers at their own pace, are subjected to the intense lifestyle and pressures that adults suffer.

I don't know where the adult and child in the photograph were going or what they were doing but they appeared to be in a hurry. Perhaps they had a bus to catch. However, the way they were purposefully striding out, eyes seemingly set on some future event, caused me to reflect on the Slow Movement and how we would all benefit if its precepts were more widely adopted.

Incidentally the stone-built Georgian houses in this corner of Stamford, Lincolnshire, have stood up well to what the past couple of hundred years have thrown at them. They were built on sound principles with an eye to the future and will doubtless grace the town for a few more centuries yet.

Thursday, May 23, 2013

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I visit and photograph Aswarby church every year when we walk in the vicinity of Osbournby. Sometimes it's autumn or winter when we pass by, at other times it may be spring or summer. Whatever the time of year I never fail to admire both the building and its setting. On our recent visit it struck me that in many respects St Denys is a very typical English church. The earliest parts are twelfth century with the nave showing evidence of rebuilding in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and the tower is a fine example of the fifteenth century, the last phase of Gothic. Much of the external ornament shows the inventiveness and wit of the minds of the medieval masons and sculptors who carved it.

A west tower is characteristic of English parish churches, as is a four-bay arcade and a lower, shorter chancel (this one was rebuilt in the Victorian period). The main entrance is typically through the south porch, though here, as is sometimes the case, the north door is favoured for convenience. The photograph above shows the view from the south, consequently the north aisle that projects from the nave and has its own lean-to roof can't be seen. However, such an addition is also very common. The north side was favoured for such an extension because the south side was usually chosen for burial before any other part of the churchyard.

Inside Aswarby church what we see is also very typical of what an English church offers. The view in my smaller photograph is one I took from the pulpit. It shows the bright west window seen through the tower arch. The area railed off in the corner by the north door holds the local landowner's tombs, in this case the Whichcote family. One less commonly found feature is the box pews. The Georgian period liked these for their comfort, privacy and freedom from draughts, but the Victorians often got rid of them, installing sturdy and uncomfortable pews. The rightmost box pews with the pierced, decorative woodwork are raised above the main blocks of seating and have a good view of the pulpit. This is the area reserved for the Whichcote family. Its elevated position reflects their elevated status. It also has its own fireplace!

The two boards above the tower arch are hatchments, paintings of coats of arms that were hung on the house of a deceased member of the well-to-do and often removed to the church after the burial. The Australian flag hangs in Aswarby church. This isn't unique but is unusual. It commemorates George Bass, a man who was raised in the locality, baptised at this church, and who discovered and mapped parts of Australia. The Bass Strait that separates the Australian mainland from Tasmania is named after him. It comes as no surprise to find that quite a few of the visitors to the church hail from Victoria and Tasmania.

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

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In one of my early posts - in March 2006 as it happens - I extolled the advantages of a west-facing coast. I happened to live near the west-facing Fylde coast at the time and during my years in Lancashire I frequently photographed during the evening by the sea. Such a coast has a singular advantage at this time of day because, if the sun goes down and produces a blazing sunset, one with fiery skies of red, orange and yellow, the reflection on the sea below doubles the magical effect. I now live in Lincolnshire, a county with a coast that faces east and my nearest west facing coast is round on the other side of The Wash in Norfolk, in the area of Hunstanton. In fact, that is the only piece of coast in the east of east of England that faces west (a good quiz question there I think).

Fortunately the sea is not the only reflective surface that doubles the value of a sunset: ponds, lakes and rivers do as well. So too do the glass curtain walls of modern high-rise buildings. This particular sunset shows the same glass wall that features in today's photograph. It is in Southwark, London. On the day in question it wasn't evening as I passed but early morning and looking up I saw that the sky was being reflected in a rather fine manner. Such reflections regularly attract my eye and feature fairly strongly in this blog. I wonder if the extra value that they add to the subject they reflect appeals to my Yorkshire upbringing?

Sunday, May 19, 2013

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Of all the photographic subjects that might benefit from conversion to black and white flowers appear to be the least suitable. It's true that photographers find them an attractive subject because of the shapes of their blooms and leaves, their growth habits and locations, the way gardeners and arrangers plant and display them, etc. But it's surely the variety, strength and subtlety of their colours that is the main quality that draws us into pointing our cameras at them. Consequently, most of the photographs of flowers that we see are colour images and very few are monochrome.

And yet some of the secondary qualities beyond colour are reason enough to consider converting the right subject to black and white. In the past I've found the subtle gradations of grey that appear when a rose bloom is converted to black and white to be very appealing.

Today's photograph is of a flower that I wouldn't have thought of converting to black and white until I had processed the colour shot and was sitting in front of my computer reflecting on the finished image. I'd chosen my usual black background for the yellow flowers, green leaves and clear glass vase and that gave it a very strong silhouette. It was the overall compositional shape - a variant of Hogarth's serpentine "line of beauty" - that made me have a look at the shot in black and white. The conversion made the silhouette (reverse silhouette I suppose) stronger, and the yellow blooms retained their impact as greys and white. The final image, with a little judicious dodging of the individual flowers stands as a photograph every bit as strongly as the colour version but offers something different to the viewer. Of course, placing colour and black and white versions of the same shot side by side tends to make the viewer choose which they prefer. However,the question about colour and black and white need not be one of "either" and "or" but can simply be about "also"!

Incidentally, the flower in question is one that I always call Kerria but I looked up the Royal Horticultural Society's "preferred common name" and found it to be Japanese Rose. That doesn't seem to me a particularly descriptive name because, though the plant is biologically part of the Rosaceae family, it has none of the most commonly understood characteristics of the rose. I'd have chosen one of the other charming and traditional English names that have been bestowed on the plant down the years - probably "Bachelor's Buttons"!

Friday, May 17, 2013

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On a recent visit to London I stopped briefly in front of the Cottons Centre on the south bank of the Thames, raised my camera and took this photograph of the zig-zag walls and the the green-tinted windows reflecting the early morning sky. I liked the detailing of this building the first time I saw it and I like it still. The smooth, cream finish appeals to me and contrasts well with the narrow, terracotta-coloured lines that mark vertical edges and the boundary of each storey. There is a folded, stepped, and chamfered, origami-like quality to this part of the elevation that I find attractive. The way the exterior has the feeling of a technical drawing is something that I like too. Though not a star building among those found in London, in fact, not one that gets much mention in the books on the city's modern architecture, the Cottons Centre has many good qualities and is a positive addition to its location. It's the sort of building that makes me wonder why there are still people who lament modern architecture and always compare it unfavourably with older buildings.

I was thinking about this as I walked by the Thames and I also fell to reflecting on some of the quotations that I know about modern architecture. It occurred to me that whilst I strongly disagree with the blanket "new is bad, old is good" school of architectural criticism, the caustic comments of such people are usually much funnier than any dreamed up by those who defend modern buildings. To illustrate that point here, for your entertainment, are a few such words of wisdom.

"What has happened to architecture since the second world war that the
only passers-by who can contemplate it without pain are those equipped
with a white stick and a dog?"Bernard Levin (1928-2004), English journalist, author and broadcaster

“In my experience, if you have to keep the lavatory door shut by extending your left leg, it's modern architecture.”Nancy Banks-Smith (1929- ), British television and radio critic

"The Sydney Opera House looks as if it is something that has crawled out of the sea and is up to no good."Beverley Nichols (1898-1983) English author, playwright, journalist etc

"Personally I think all modern architects should be pulled down and redeveloped as car parks."Spike Milligan (1918-2002) Irish/English comedian, writer, actor, musician etc

"I declare this thing open - whatever it is."Prince Philip (1921- ) consort of Queen Elizabeth II:onopening a new annex at Vancouver City Hall.

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

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There are 238 churches in England with traces or substantial parts that are of Anglo-Saxon, that is to say pre-Conquest, origin. The Saxons were fine sculptors and illustrators who gave primacy to the line above all else. They were a people who built mainly in wood and for this reason none of their houses have survived. Many of their churches were made of wood too, and of these only one example remains, at Greensted, near Ongar, in Essex. However, they did build churches in stone. Some, such as that at Bradford-on-Avon, Wiltshire, is as it was first built. Most of the others have been enlarged during the Norman or the Gothic periods.

The church at Barton upon Humber, Lincolnshire, was originally a small Saxon building of the late 900s. It consisted of three parts: a western porticus/baptistery, a 22 feet by 22feet (exterior measurements) tower that served as a nave, and a chancel 15 feet long. This was extended in the mid-eleventh century and the twelfth century, but this later work was taken down when a larger extension was built in the thirteenth, mid-fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. What is surprising, but not unique, is the fact that the original Saxon work was allowed to remain. Perhaps it was because the tower continued to serve its purpose and the cost and difficulty of replacing it couldn't be countenanced.

A visitor to the church today is struck by the bright, airy space of the Gothic nave, aisles and chancel compared with the diminutive, badly lit spaces of the Saxon structure. The quality of workmanship and the contrast between the amount and style of decoration is also marked: the Saxon looks positively crude next to the Gothic. And yet, this crudity has an elemental sturdiness that is quite appealing. Capitals are not elaborately carved and decorated with faces and leaves as in the Gothic nave, rather they are simple, heavy blocks. The arches - above we see the one linking the tower with the porticus/baptistery - are narrow due to the semi-circular head and the understandable caution the Saxon builders exercised when spanning spaces in this way. But decoration of a sort there is. Those outer strips that frame the arch using alternating long and short strips of stone (often called, appropriately enough, "long and short work") are decorative with no structural purpose. It has been conjectured that these strips (they are visible on the outside of the tower too) hark back to the Saxons' wooden constructions.

This building is now in the care of English Heritage and it is their lighting that drew me into taking the photograph. Its brightness is necessary to allow visitors to safely negotiate the dimly lit spaces. However, it is sufficiently subdued that it both gives something of the effect there must have been when the Saxon church was lit by candles or tallow lamps, and also offers the photographer an attractive, contrasty, atmospheric composition.

Sunday, May 12, 2013

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There is a great temptation in photography to shoot beautiful subjects when they are at their most appealing. Landscapes, women, babies, cars, sunsets, you name the subject and you'll find numerous photographs showing them at their best. The light, the sky, the pose, the backdrop, every detail will be in place to show the subject off off to dazzling effect.

It's even more so with flowers. In fact, though it's reasonably easy to find, say, good landscapes where the weather is grim and conventional beauty has been discarded in favour of the stern beauty of nature in the raw, just try and find a flower photograph with blooms past their best and I guarantee you'll struggle.

Painters have long known the different kind of beauty that can be seen in fading flowers, a muted attractiveness that is hinted at or remembered rather than displayed openly before your eyes. It was this effect that I sought when I photographed the tulips shown in today's photograph. But, it hasn't quite worked out as I wanted. Why? Well, if you are unfamiliar with what tulips look like at the peak of their perfection you might think that the flowers in this blue glass vase are just rather fine blooms that natural spread their petals in this rather attractive way. The fact the flowers are fading, are past their best, are naturally shedding their petals and are soon to be just stems isn't necessarily obvious, and even if it is, there remains a beauty that isn't particularly tinged with a feeling of imminent demise: there is still plenty of deep colour in the petals and little sense of the faded beauty that I sought to capture. So, I've kept the flowers and I'll try again when their petals develop brown edges and their decline looks a bit more terminal!

Addendum:Here are the same tulips two days later (Fading Tulips 2), the petals rather more wrinkled and curled,the colours more muted, a hint of brownness about them, but still not everything I envisaged. Having reflected further on the matter I've concluded that I chose the wrong colour tulips for this exercise. It would have been much better to use dark red or dark purple. In fact, any colour with less brilliance than yellow would have suited my purposes. A lesson learned. Perhaps next time...

Addendum 2:
A final shot (Fading Tulips 3), three days after the first one, and one day after the second. Still not quite there. It's definitely the basic colours of the tulip that's wrong for the photograph I'm seeking.

Saturday, May 11, 2013

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I visit a lot of churches and churchyards and see many gravestones and memorials. In Britain the earliest in parish churches (as opposed to cathedrals, abbeys, minsters etc) date from the 1600s. Over the years I've seen examples from every century between that time and the present day. Some catch my eye with their opulence, others their elegance, a few because they depart from the conventions of the day, and then some because they are - how shall I put it - simple and unaffected, in fact, ordinary.

Today's photograph falls into the latter category. It tells, in plain language, using modest lettering - no decorative flourishes - who is remembered and the basic facts about their length of life and date of death. A poignant note is struck by the reference to "5 Children who died in their Infancy" but it is added in a matter-of-fact way. There is no pictorial or decorative carving, no cherubs or leaves, no wreaths or borders. The only "extra" added to the basic facts is a short verse of four lines. Who were these people? I don't know. They were sufficiently well-off to have a memorial in the church (unless it was brought in at a later date to be used as flooring), but probably not well-to-do, perhaps an example of the "mute inglorious Milton" that Thomas Gray wrote about. Whoever wrote or chose the verse - perhaps James Bygott himself - had clearly seen and been repelled by the sort of memorial I've frequently come across: the ones that gush on in an unrestrained and often ludicrous manner about the wonderful qualities of the deceased and how he was (it's usually a man) held in the highest esteem by all who knew him, regardless of their station in life. The four lines on this memorial are an effective riposte to such bombast.

It occurred to me as I read the memorial again on the screen of my computer that the lives briefly recorded are ordinary ones. The death of multiple children was once commonplace. Death in middle age of a (only surviving?) daughter was not unusual, nor was a lifespan that didn't quite reach the "threescore years and ten" described in the King James version of the Bible. All of which prompted a feeling of gratitude for the longer, healthier lives that we experience and expect today.

Thursday, May 09, 2013

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Keisby Wood near Folkingham, Lincolnshire, is not all it seems. On the face of it this is a typical area of lowland woodland, somewhat neglected but with evidence of recent felling and thinning by the Forestry Commission. However, the visitor who walks the footpaths among the trees cannot help but notice concrete paths, sections of brick wall disappearing beneath the ivy and, every now and then, shattered concrete buildings, slabs resting on each other, broken edges facing skyward and all succumbing to a covering of leaf mould and moss. Today's photograph shows one such structure that is but a few years away from disappearing entirely under vegetation at which point it will have every appearance of a natural outcrop of rock.

What are these old buildings? The utilitarian nature of the shapes and materials together with the large areas of concrete covering the neighbouring fields did rather give the game away, but only after a little research when we got home was all revealed. They are relics of the second world war and later, all that remains of the airfield known as RAF Folkingham. This base became operational in 1940 and was used by the RAF and, later, by the United States Army Air Forces. Paratroops and manned gliders towed by transport aircraft flew from the base during the invasion of Europe and for later supporting actions.

After the war flying ceased and in 1947 the base was closed. BRM motors used the extensive runways for racing car testing. However, the Cold War saw a further military use for the site. In 1959 three Thor mobile Intermediate Range Ballistic Missiles (IRBMs) were located there with an RAF unit. These nuclear missiles, each capable of destroying a large city and all its inhabitants, were ready for firing with 15 minutes notice and remained in position until 1963. The base closed when the IRBMs were replaced by the deployment of Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles (ICBMs) on the United States mainland and, in the UK, the RAF's V-Bomber force of Valiant, Victor and Vulcan aircraft equipped with the Blue Steel stand-off nuclear missile. Today the airfield is used for the storage of old agricultural vehicles, lorries etc.

As we walked through the woodland great tits and chaffinches flew on ahead of us. All was calm, quiet and peaceful. We were oblivious of the aircraft that flew from here seventy years ago and the missiles that sat on their launch vehicles, thankfully never needing to be fired. On our next visit we'll look a little more closely and view the sylvan scene in a rather different light.

Wednesday, May 08, 2013

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Living under the benefits of a democracy confers rights as well as responsibilities. One of the duties, it seems to me, is to remain informed about politics and take part in it from a position of knowledge and principle. Sadly, our most recent county council elections demonstrate that quite a few electors show scant sign of such engagement. Moreover, these and other elections have shown that we are unable to expect it even from some of those who seek public office. As those from these islands might realise, I am thinking about the United Kingdom Independence Party (UKIP) who garnered a significant number of councillors at the expense of all of the other parties, but from the Conservatives in particular.

One only has to read what pass for the policies (main UKIP website unavailable at time of writing!) of this party to realise that its position is broadly right-wing and populist, that its underlying principles are not developed in the way that we have a right to expect from serious politicians and that its national profile rests almost exclusively on the shoulders of its leader. According to a news report some senior UKIP figures recognise that the absence of policies is a failing and have considered buying them from right-leaning think tanks!

Those who voted for UKIP seem to have done so for a variety of reasons, few of which I find defensible. Some are attracted by all or individual policies - fair enough - but many are so undeveloped as to be no more than items on a wish-list. Many say they are fed up with the indistinguishable metropolitan elite who head the other parties, an argument I have some sympathy with but one that fatally and naively concentrates on personalities rather than policies. Others say it was to send the main parties a message that they are not giving enough attention to the matters that concern them. Perhaps such people should have been assiduously lobbying their MPs and government rather than relying on a single trip to the ballot box to express their concerns. Then there are those who voted for the UKIP leader because he is "different" from the other party leaders, more "human", more forthright, not part of the establishment. Anyone holding this view simply hasn't been paying attention. I find it hard to see much difference between the backgrounds of the present prime minister and the leader of UKIP. The latter is, apparently, the son of a stockbroker, someone who attended Dulwich College, a private, fee-paying school, and who worked as a commodity broker in the City before entering politics. That is a background, it seems to me, with more than a hint of the establishment and the metropolitan elite about it. As one observer humorously and perceptively noted, the UKIP leader's appeal and approach share a lot in common with that of the current mayor of London. To my mind that is not an endorsement but an indictment.

All this has little to do with today's photograph of a part of London on the south bank, in Southwark, called English Grounds. If I were to try and establish some sort of connection I would do it by saying that this view, like the political party discussed above, isn't entirely what it seems.

Monday, May 06, 2013

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When photographers use the word "contrast" they usually mean a marked difference between dark and light areas in a photograph. In black and white photography this can be achieved by seeking out compositions that naturally feature areas that are white or almost so as well as very dark or black areas. Another means of increasing contrast in this type of photography is to use a red, orange or yellow filter. In wet photography, of course, it can also be introduced during enlarging and developing too by techniques such as "burning" and "dodging". Contrast in the light/dark sense of is clearly possible in colour photography too, not least by shooting against the light.

However, the word contrast can be used in a different way, to mean a clear and visible difference of character (rather than tone) between one part of the image and another. This photograph of two adjacent shrubs shows that sort of contrast, as do aspects of this shot of Southwold Pier, particularly where the name sits against the clear sky and the dark shadows of the railings overlay the concrete and wooden decking. Architects often make use of contrast (or counterpoint) particularly when they use the soft, irregular lines and textures of natural vegetation against the hard, sharp surfaces of their buildings. This photograph of the City of London Information Centre (near St Paul's cathedral) exemplifies what I mean. So too does today's photograph.

The shot shown above has little contrast in the light/dark sense, but plenty as a result of the ragged lines of the tree branches against the hard, straight lines of the external louvre screening. The latter is used to moderate the solar gain affecting these buildings on the edge of More London. I've photographed details of these particular buildings before, but on a recent visit I stepped further back to capture the contrast that the architects had introduced into the composition.

Saturday, May 04, 2013

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I was raised in the white rose county of Yorkshire but, because I was born in Westmorland, I've never considered myself a true Yorkshireman. Our boys are Yorkshire-born, as my wife, but I still see myself as a son of Westmorland, an ancient county that in 1974 was carelessly and unthinkingly parcelled up with Cumberland and part of Lancashire into the newly formed county of Cumbria. However, when I was growing up I seem to have absorbed some of the characteristics of Yorkshire being both stubborn and argumentative, proud of the area in which I lived and showing a certain disdain for the neighbouring red rose county of Lancashire.

The Wars of the Roses on which the Yorkshire/Lancashire rivalry is based was something that was impressed on us children, and I was fascinated by the way that, after much bloodshed, the two roses symbolic of the two counties were combined to form the Tudor rose. That union did not, however, end the rivalry between the counties. For example, during every childhood summer I took note of the outcome of the regular cricket matches between Yorkshire and Lancashire, always rooting for my adoptive county. But then, after thirty odd years living in Yorkshire I lived for twenty years in Lancashire. That put an end to any vestigial disdain for Lancastrians because in living among them I found them to be friendly people with an equally fine and interesting county of which they are justifiably proud.

I was thinking about my childhood affection for the white rose the other day when, with a visiting friend, we went to a few of the local church flower festivals. One particular display featured a variety of white flowers against a black background and I selected part of it for this shot of a group of white roses. The lighting in the church was such that it only needed a bit of underexposure and some "burning" during the post processing for me to make the blooms "float" against the black card the arrangers had used to show off the flowers.

Thursday, May 02, 2013

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On my recent trip to London I walked up the south bank of the Thames, past the MI5 building, to Vauxhall to see St George Wharf and, in particular, a new 50 storey residential tower that is approaching completion. This area has been developed with a complex of expensive and distinctive, river-side towers and blocks. The shiny new skyscraper that has grown up beside them seems to have settled on the generic and rather presumptuous name of The Tower.

Will such a name last? Can it when it is one among many towers? Is this a grab for a name that distinguishes it from all the other particular towers? Who knows? What I do know is that already the building has a certain fame and notoriety. On completion its 594 feet (181 metres) it will be the tallest residential tower in the UK, and this fact has caused some commentators to say it is too high for the area and too high for its relative proximity to the Palace of Westminster. Fame of a different type attached to the tower when, on 16th January 2013, a helicopter struck the construction crane attached to the building, causing the helicopter to crash into the road below, hitting two cars, killing the pilot and another person, and setting two buildings on fire. Such an occurrence is, thankfully, very uncommon, yet the fact that it has happened once must put the thought of it happening again into the minds of some high-rise residents, and will make people consider the down-side as well as the up-side (pun intended) of high-rise living.

The exterior of the new tower is, to my mind, fine without being particularly special. The broadly cylindrical shape is not unpleasant but doesn't offer an overall form or specific details that strongly distinguish it from others or that cause the viewer's gaze to linger. The blue glass looks attractive, as blue glass often does, yet one has to wonder how much longer it can survive as the default tint. The tower is topped by a disguised wind turbine to power some of its lighting and heat-pump technology will take warmth from the water of the London aquifer. These and other design features will mean it needs about one third of the energy that a typical tower of this size consumes, and its carbon dioxide emissions will be half to two thirds that of a similar structure.

I spent a few minutes watching the workmen as they went about the task of putting the finishing touches to the building. Two orange clad men made useful indicators of the scale of the structure. They were dangling on ropes and appeared to be washing the windows (surely not) or applying something to the glass or glazing frame. Incidentally, the smaller photo is a crop of a larger image.

Wednesday, May 01, 2013

click photo to enlarge
The brouhaha that accompanied the opening of London's Millennium Footbridge - it was immediately closed for over a year to correct a wobble induced by large numbers of pedestrians - overshadowed the ambitious nature of the design. Now that it has been in daily use for over a decade the daring of its designer, Norman Foster (assisted by Arup Associates and the sculptor Sir Anthony Caro) is somewhat taken for granted. Consequently I'd like to review just what makes it such an ambitious conception.

The Millennium Footbridge was the first new Thames crossing since the construction of Tower Bridge, and the first ever designed solely for pedestrians. Its novel shape arises from the designers' intention that the views from the bridge of the river and the city should be as clear and as uninterrupted as possible. River traffic and the desire to thrill produced a central span of 320 metres. Only two supports are placed in the water, quite close to the banks. These are elegant "Y" shapes. Looking at the structure it's not immediately apparent that it is, essentially, a suspension bridge. The cables are not slung in the usual manner and closely follow the contour of the deck, never rising more than 7 feet 6 inches (2.3 metres) above it.